


Off They Come!

by JoansGlove



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 17:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8111446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: My own special interpretation of that evocative scene in the Slot





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Duchess - may the lure of latex gloves never wane! 
> 
> With thanks to Ifitbelove

Joan seethed silently. Small spots of pink flared high on her cheeks as she pressed the point of a perfectly sharpened pencil into the pad of her thumb. Because of Fletcher’s uTTer incompetence who knew how much, and of what, had been smuggled into her prison. The Board would want to know why there had been another drugs death on her watch. But… the RAMP had landed Doyle in the Slot. Joan had a number of mixed feelings about this; Smith had been correct when she’d put forward supporting Doyle’s parole as a means of stemming the flow of drugs, yet Joan couldn’t suppress the satisfaction that she got from Doyle jeopardising her release by a stint in Solitary. This self-styled ‘Number One Dealer’ had been a real pain in the backside for much of her appointment; thinking herself above the law, thinking that she could outplay Joan Ferguson at her own game. It galled her that she hadn’t been able to pin Doyle for the importation and distribution in this prison, and Joan was sure that Doyle had more than a helping hand in the whole Spiteri debacle; her thoughts veered to the spy, Doctor Westfall, the pad of Joan's thumb whitened further as her fist tightened instinctively, Westfall was out of her sphere now – but not the Board’s…. Her whirling mind took another sideways step: Vera may not be able to conduct a satisfactory amorous relationship of her own but she could spot an infringement of the rules at 20 paces and with the information she’d so eagerly provided, Joan had been able to kill two birds with one stone. 

Joan smiled evilly to herself relishing Doyle’s predicament – she knew that the cocky bitch wouldn’t chance jeopardising her freedom – she’d have to submit to a search sooner or later. And Joan would make sure that she was the one to conduct it. From the outset Doyle had been deliberately provocative, attempting to shock, beguile and ingratiate herself in turn; seemingly teasing her, inviting her to cross the line that had become fainter and less distinct with each frustrating encounter. But now, the time had come where Doyle was finally suffering for her sins – and all the more so considering her imminent Parole hearing. Neither Smith nor Westfall could help her now! She would teach Doyle a memorable lesson. Joan carefully replaced the pencil amongst the ranks then leaned back in her big black chair and closed her eyes as she allowed herself a few moments to envisage the scene – there was always time in the working day for a little mental masturbation.

Each purposeful stride towards the Slot jolted her over-excited cunt. She stood in the doorway, shadowed as always by Vera. What was she even doing here? She thought to herself. Always following her around like a pet dog…. Or a lingering fart!   
Doyle stood before her, her belligerence starkly absent in the face of her immediate future. “Well?” challenged Joan calmly.  
“You said I could leave here if I gave you permission for a cavity search,” she blurted uncomfortably.  
“Yes,” confirmed Joan in a voice like suede.   
The faintest hint of a smile flickered in Ferguson's eyes and at the corners of her sensuous mouth – fuck she looked turned on thought Franky and she swallowed hard. “Get it over with!” Impatience and apprehension shone beneath her forced bravado. She needed to get out of here – and fast!  
Behind her, Velcro tore as Vera opened her glove pouch. Joan couldn’t see the put-upon expression on her unhappy face but she heard it in the sulky way Vera sighed. “Leave us.” Said Joan in her coolly imperious tone. She knew that if Doyle was submitting to an internal then there would be nothing to find, she would need no witness to corroborate a concealment or to observe what she was about to do to this vulnerable woman…. And of course, it would drive Vera mad imagining just what she, Joan, was actually doing to Doyle whilst still smarting from her casual dismissal.  
“Shouldn’t I stay….?” Vera looked doubtful, confused…..hurt even.  
“No.” The word caught and drew out in Joan's thickening throat, flowing around the lump that grew with her arousal; her heart gladdened as Doyle’s eyes widened in alarm and Vera left the small cell. Her hands found their way to her belt pouch and she had pulled out a black latex glove before Di Hagen had even locked the door; Joan listened absently as two sets of footsteps retreated. Franky swallowed nervously as Ferguson fitted her hand into the latex. “Off they come!” she said coaxingly and snapped the cuff against her bare wrist.

Franky pulled her usual ‘fuck it, let’s do it’ face reserved for unpleasant moments like this and pushed her trousers and underwear off her hips and let gravity do the rest. “Well, come on then!” She bit her lip as Ferguson's eyes travelled slowly down to her groin. Bitch was gonna make the most of this – she just knew it!   
“Mmmm, shaven,” observed Joan, “well that should make things a little easier.” She leant into Doyle and whispered “feels good doesn’t it?” She allowed a sly smile to develop on her swollen lips as her smouldering eyes flickered between Doyle’s, with their heavily blackened rims, and her worried mouth.   
Squaring her shoulders Franky drew in a deep breath. “Let’s just get it over with. You’ve got what ya wanted.”   
“Maybe,” replied Joan disinterestedly straightening up, “take off the rest.”  
“Fuck off!” Doyle pulled a face in response to the obvious joke.  
“We need to be sure that you haven’t hidden anything in your clothing don’t we, hmmm?” Joan crossed her arms and swept her dark gaze over Doyle’s half-naked body.  
“Fuck’s sake!” The prisoner grumbled fruitlessly as she pulled her vest over her head. “Getting off yet?” she sneered as she let her bra fall from her breasts and spun around, arms in the air.   
Joan surveyed the muscled body in front of her. The smooth skin was littered with old scars from cigarette burns. Parents! She though contemptuously as she took her time to answer. “Ummm, no. Bend over.”

With a cool, light touch Joan ran her hand up the inside of Doyle’s thigh, fully aware that the vulnerable woman was fighting to control the trembling muscles. Oh, this was just too delightful! Slowly and very deliberately Joan cupped the naked mound in her palm, latex catching on the hint of stubble as she slid her middle finger between plump lips then drew back her hand until the pad rested firmly on Doyle’s clit. “I wondered how long it would take you to surrender, Doyle. You do like to make life difficult for yourself, don’t you?” Her fingertip moved in small, delicate circles.  
“It’s the principle of the thing. You screws think you own us!” Franky’s face was a mask of disgust as she stared woodenly at the wall in front of her.   
“Principles? In prison? What a noble thought, but you and I both know that there’s no such thing don’t we, hmmm? Especially,” she smiled slyly, “if you listen to Lucy Gambaro.” Joan massaged the small bump hiding within its dry shroud; she leaned over and whispered huskily into Doyle’s ear “where are your principles now, Franky?”   
Her gloved thumb slipped into the exposed vagina and began to rotate it, opening up the tight ring of muscle. Her own damp ring clenched at the fear radiating from Doyle.  
“They’re still there but I’ve got stuff to do.” Doyle’s cocky tone couldn’t quite hide the quiver in her voice as she thought about the two balloons of smack working their way through her gut.  
“How pragmatic,” Joan mocked, “but so patently untrue. You,” she massaged the moistening flesh in her grasp, “wanted my special attention.”  
“Fuck off!” gasped Doyle. Despite her anxiety Franky’s body was beginning to betray her.   
“Of course you did,” persuaded Joan in a silky voice. She felt the small button beneath her finger begin to harden and smiled to herself at the woman’s predictable response. “And now you’ve got it. Enjoying yourself yet?” Joan brought her index finger into play.  
“Not half as much as you, you twisted bitch!” she clamped her lips together and tried to block out what was happening below her waist.  
“Liar!” said Joan softly. “You're getting as slippery as an eel.” She withdrew her hand and reversed her hold on Doyle, fingers sliding into the slick hole as her wet thumb pressed hard against the swollen clit. She began to fuck the quivering prisoner exquisitely slowly, knuckles pressing deep into the twitching muscle that ringed her entrance. “You want this. You’ve wanted it since the day we met.”  
“I fucking well don’t!” groaned Franky as her pulse began to hammer in her ears. Ferguson's hand halted on the outward stroke and her body betrayed her by pushing back to find those long, thick fingers.  
“You can tell yourself that if it helps but we both know it’s lies. Look at you….” she crooned.  
Franky knew it to be true. “Bitch!”  
“Yes,” soothed Joan and slipped a third finger inside the humiliated woman. She knew that Vera would be watching on the live feed (she wouldn’t be able to help herself) and smiled seductively over her shoulder at the camera. Her smile became grim as she turned back to Doyle, she knew that arousal this damaged woman was experiencing would haunt her far worse than the memory of an over-zealous probing, just bordering on excessively harsh.

The horrible pleasure became so intense that Franky was forced to brace her hands against the rough wall and it took all of her willpower not to touch her swaying breasts as she rocked in time with Ferguson's thrusts. Her clit strained under the evil bitch’s touch and she was perilously close to coming when Ferguson eventually pulled her long fingers out of her cunt. She felt her slick juices scooped up and smeared over her arsehole and she gasped in anticipation. Hot, heavy breath fell on the small of her back – Ferguson was almost panting – and Franky felt a small thrill of satisfaction that she’d made yet another Governor wet.  
“Open up, Doyle. We’re not done yet.” Ferguson loosened her sphincter with firm sweeps of her finger that made Franky shiver and then she felt a tight pressure and knew that very shortly she would have two fingers up her arse; her clit beat wildly and she closed her eyes against the sordid pleasure as they slid painfully inside and began to comb the velvety lining. “Betcha’d like my fingers in your other hole too wouldn’t you, Doyle?” she asked hoarsely. Joan pushed away an image of Doyle choking on her thick fat strap-on, face bruised from a well-deserved beating and tears running down her face; her clitoris was painfully hard, sending pulse after pulse of lustful need barrelling through her body, and hot juices seeped from her aching hole and insinuated themselves along her swollen labia as she clenched and relaxed her pelvic muscles. “Does that sound good to you?”   
Franky bit down on her answer and mutely shook her head. She wanted it so badly she hated herself.  
“No? Not even a little bit? Not even though they make you so … weT?”   
“Fuck off and do what you have to, bitch!” she grimaced. 

Joan smiled broadly to herself at Doyle’s predicament, she felt supremely powerful. “Oh, Franky,” her voice was full of disappointment. “And I thought that you were cooperating with me….” She pulled out her fingers and wiped them dry on Doyle’s hip before plunging them back into the puckered anus. Franky cried out at the sharp, burning pain and moaned again as Ferguson twisted her hand and slid her ring finger and pinkie into her twitching vagina. “There, see? Don’t they fit well inside you, hmm?” The midnight black latex gathered in the forks of her fingers as she rammed them repeatedly into Doyle until the young woman was almost crying as she tried to hold back her orgasm. Joan stilled her hand mid-thrust, “still like to tell me that you don’t want it, Franky?” Her low voice was a honeyed barb.  
“Faaack!” Franky desperately drew on her well of hatred for this woman as her belly tightened.  
Joan slid her fingers back into Doyle’s slick heat, “is that a yes?” She withdrew them again until their tips were barely touching quivering flesh, “or a no?” Franky snorted and swore again. “No matter,” purred Joan, “I’m done.” She pulled away and smiled sweetly up at the camera as she peeled off her soiled glove. She took a moment to straighten her beloved uniform as Doyle sank trembling to the thin mattress, the storm of her own stimulation dissipating as she drew in deep breaths through her finely sculpted nose and surveyed her victim. 

Doyle was almost shaking as she pulled her clothes back on. The Governor wore a look of self-satisfied pleasure on her usually hard face and she shot Ferguson a venomous look from lust-filled eyes, hating herself for responding so hotly to this…..freak. Was this what it had been like for Jodie? She suddenly wondered.   
The Governor rapped on the cell door and waited for Hagen to arrive, her composure was remarkable, only her gleaming eyes and plump, carmine lips indicated that she had been strongly aroused less than two minutes ago. At the sound of approaching footsteps she smiled brightly, “well, until this afternoon, Franky, let’s see if we can’t convince the Board of your…” she paused and contemptuously swept her eyes up Doyle’s unsteady frame “reformed character?” The door opened and Ferguson swaggered out leaving Franky to trail after her on wobbly legs.

Franky could barely walk was she was escorted back to her habitat. Hot pulses of need stabbed at her vitals, weakening her from the inside out as she geared up to write her plea to the Parole Board and shift the smack – one way or another. With each surge of lust she tried to imagine Gidge, naked and waiting for her, but every time Ferguson invaded with her hot menace and stiff fingers. Fucking Bitch! 

Joan, however, was on cloud nine. Her earlier arousal had plateaued into a most pleasurable buzz and she had just reviewed the footage of Doyle transferring the contraband from her vagina to her stomach. Doyle was playing Russian Roulette with her life and Joan liked the odds for a fatal outcome regardless of the resulting paperwork. And, if the heroin didn’t get her, there was always Mr Jackson’s reaction to that damning little snippet from her last counselling session; live by the sword, die by the sword….


End file.
